


I See Fire

by kjack89



Series: Lord of the Rings AU [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Battle of the Hornburg, Doubt, Dwarves, Elves, Established Relationship, Injury, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras tells Grantaire that he is going with the Elves to aid the men of Rohan, and he and Grantaire argue for one final time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ereini0n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ereini0n/gifts).



> Title is from the Ed Sheeran song of the same name, from The Hobbit DoS, mainly because these lines always remind me of "Drink With Me":
> 
> "And if we should die tonight  
> We should all die together  
> Raise a glass of wine for the last time”
> 
> As with the previous part, ignores a large part of canon (and conflates movie canon [Elves at the Battle of the Hornburg/Helm's Deep] and book canon [the rough timeline between the Council of Elrond and the Battle, for instance]). See end of work for Elvish translations.
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies with my continued apologies to both Victor Hugo and J. R. R. Tolkien. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Wintering in the Elven realm of Rivendell was something of a dream to Grantaire, who had chosen to remain behind following Gimli’s departure with the Fellowship and Glóin’s return to Erebor. The weather was vastly different than what Grantaire was used to on Erebor or even the shores of the Long Lake, for one thing, and for another, he spent much of his time in the company of Enjolras.

The Elf had kept true to this word and spent most of his time attempting to convince Grantaire to the merits of standing against the Darkness, and Grantaire was more than willing to listen — though admittedly, this stemmed less from being swayed to Enjolras’s side and far more from the beauty of simply watching Enjolras speak passionately. If before he had been entranced by the effect the sun had on Enjolras’s beauty, he was far more so by the radiance brought forth by Enjolras when riled. It was a beauty that equaled no others, and he had wasted many a moonlit night with fingers aching to carve its likeness into stone or gem, or else immortalize it in words.

But Grantaire was only a minor craftsmen and a far worse wordsmith, so instead he drank Enjolras in as best he could, as deeply and more fully than even his wine.

While Grantaire was content to watch and dream, though, the events of the wider world were moving, and rapidly, Enjolras paying far more attention to them than Grantaire ever did. And so it was that one day he met Grantaire by the shores of the river Bruinen, his normally smooth brow furrowed, looking drawn and paler than usual, as if the sun cast a shadow over his face. Grantaire’s easy smile fell when he saw him. “What news, Enjolras?” he asked, a little urgently.

For a long moment, Enjolras did not speak, but when he did, his normally musical voice was grave. “We march to war.”

“To war?” Grantaire repeated. “What war? To whose aid? Surely the Elves do not intend on marching on the Black Gates themselves, or—”

Enjolras shook his head. “No. Not to the Black Gates. To the Hornburg, and to the aid of Rohan.”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed as well. “To the aid of men? I cannot believe that after all you’ve told me of your brethren’s thoughts on the fate of men in Middle Earth that they would be willing to be called to their aid.”

“It is true that many of my kin have abandoned what hopes they once had in the race of men,” Enjolras said in a low voice. “But Lord Elrond retains hope and so too does the Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien. Myself, too, for what use my hopes may be in the wider world, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac will stand with me, when the time comes. But this is larger than just a battle for an ideal — this is a chance to strike at the very heart of darkness, at the very forces that would seek to overwhelm what light still remains in this world, and it is a chance that I cannot abandon, not when yet we may make a difference.”

Grantaire stared at him. “So that’s it then,” he said hollowly. “All your pretty talk of light and life and restoring these lands — it shall all be lost to the sword or ax of some orc in some faraway land.”

Enjolras shook his head, expression darkening. “After all this time, do you still not understand? Only through fire and sacrifice can these lands ever hope to  _be_  restored.” He broke off, angry, and stalked a few paces away from Grantaire, turning away until he regained his composure. “Combeferre has always said he would not prefer conflagration, but rather the chance to let nature take its course, under the belief that good will win out over time, as surely as the river cuts through solid rock through the ages. But I believe — I have  _always_  believed — that time, that which Elves taken so for granted, is not on our side here. We must  _act_ , however difficult or painful it may be, if ever we hope to strike a decisive victory. And with Lady Galadriel’s request of Lord Elrond to raise a fighting force, we may yet have that chance.”

Shaking his head as well, Grantaire ran an agitated hand through his beard, struggling to put to words all that he was feeling. Whereas Enjolras saw, as always, the vast impacts of every action, Grantaire struggled still to see beyond the here and now, and from where he stood, well… “Where does that leave us?” he asked quietly. “You and I?”

Enjolras turned back to him, his expression softening. Though they had not shared more than a few brief kisses like the one they shared that first day, Grantaire had fallen in love with Enjolras, and harbored a dull, almost painful hope that the Elf might somehow return his feelings. “That is why I wished to see you,” Enjolras said quietly. “I had hoped that you might consider joining us.”

“Joining you — as you march to war?” Grantaire asked, his deep voice sounding higher than normal as he stared at Enjolras. “And what role would you have me play there?”

“The same role I would have always had you play,” Enjolras said, sounding almost surprised. “I told you from the beginning that you have deserved a place at my side, and now I offer it to you.”

Grantaire shook his head again, a muscle working in his jaw. “Not a place at your side, no,” he said in a low voice. “That is not what you offer me. You tempt me with that which I want most but only ever to achieve your higher goals. For to stand by your side under your terms would require belief that you know I lack, conviction I have never had. You would require I abandon my own self in favor of all you are and I shall never be.”

Enjolras stared at him. “You do not know of what you speak,” he said, his voice low and carefully controlled. “It is not your convictions that interest me, only your willingness—”

“To give myself for a cause in which I do not believe!”

“—to sacrifice your life if need be for the betterment of all,” Enjolras finished quietly. He took a step back and looked at Grantaire coolly. “Clearly I have misestimated you if you truly do not believe in that cause.”

Grantaire’s hands curled into fists. “Do you not see?” he asked, a little desperately. “What I do not believe in is that throwing your life away at behest of Rohan, of all places, will somehow better the world! It is that with which I have a problem, that and the fact that I would have you at my side just as you are now.” Suddenly, he seemed to wilt, his shoulders drooping, and he turned away from Enjolras, looking smaller than ever he had in Enjolras’s presence. “And perhaps that’s it. I have had you at my side for as long as fate will allow.”

Enjolras slowly shook his head. “Do not call on fate as if it is a predestined thing. If fate were what binds us, then I should have sailed with my kin many years ago to the Undying Lands.” Grantaire snorted and started to speak, but Enjolras cut him off, his voice sharp. “Do not dismiss what you have said, Master Dwarf. If you wish to speak of fate, let us speak of it. Do you know what runs in my blood, what fate would turn my hand? I have Vanyarian blood running through my father’s family, and on my mother’s side, Sindar. Do you know what it is to be torn between light and twilight the way I have always been? And then, to refuse the call to return? You speak of your father’s disapproval but it is a minor thing when compared to the disapproval of an entire race.” He shook his head again, and when he spoke next, it was with his usual passion, though there was an edge to his voice. “That is why I must do this, as much for the peoples of Middle Earth as for myself. I will not let the prediction of my father prove true. I  _cannot_  let it.”

For a long moment following Enjolras’s speech — the most bitter Grantaire had ever heard the normally optimistic Elf — Grantaire was silent. Then he shrugged, his voice quiet and his gaze distant as he said, “I do not deny any of that. But for me — it changes nothing.”

“Then you are decided.”

Enjolras’s voice sounded resigned, and a little tired, and Grantaire nodded slowly. “Then I am decided.” He hesitated, a thousand emotions flashing across his face as he struggled with everything he wished to say to Enjolras, but he settled for darting forward, surprisingly fleet for a dwarf, to pull Enjolras down and kiss him lightly. “I am decided only on my own futility, but never yours — remember that. Remember that, and come back to me.”

Enjolras held him for a brief moment, then released him, something of surprise in his expression. “You shall stay here? You will not return to your kin in Erebor?”

Grantaire shrugged. “What is there for me now?” he asked quietly. “Here at least, if there is news…”

He did not finish the thought, but he did not need to, and Enjolras inclined his head. “Very well.” He held Grantaire’s gaze for a moment. “I cannot promise to return.”

“No more, I imagine,” Grantaire said, with a touch of his old sarcasm, “than I can promise to go.”

They stayed together for one more brief moment, as if each had more they wished to say, but then Enjolras stepped away, his expression slipping into something far more neutral. “I must go, then. Haldir, of Lórien, awaits those who will join him.”

He turned to leave and did not turn back, even as Grantaire called after him, his voice quiet and sad, “Guren níniatha n’i lû n’i a-govenitham!” Then Grantaire turned as well, heading away from the river as if he might escape the pain in his heart.

* * *

 

Grantaire found solace that evening in the fine Elvish wine he had been careful in consuming previously, not wanting to waste what time he had with Enjolras recovering from too much drink. But with Enjolras gone, he found himself with no such limitations, and so spent that night drinking deeply for a dwarf, and even impressively to some of the Elves.

He did not remember being led away, did not remember someone telling his drinking companions — who were amused by his antics — “Uhunc ylf ernedui”, and especially did not remember being put to bed, but he thought he remembered someone smoothing a hand through his hair, and for half a second before sleep claimed him, he allowed himself to think that it might be Enjolras.

But when he woke the following morning, the figure sitting next to his bed and singing quietly was not Enjolras but rather one of his companions, Courfeyrac. The Elf looked up as Grantaire slowly came to, his slightly melancholic song trailing off. “Ah, the dwarf awakens,” he said lightly. “Is your headache this morn also dwarf-sized?”

"Why are you not with Enjolras?" Grantaire rasped, for the headache he had was distinctly  _not_ dwarf-sized, and he did not feel the need to dignify that question with a response.

Courfeyrac cocked his head slightly, his green eyes gleaming. “I will be joining them shortly, but first I wished to ensure you did not drown yourself in Elvish wine. Enjolras would not think of that, but I did.”

Grantaire’s voice was bitter as he muttered, “Of course he would not think of it. How could he, when he has so many more important things with which to be concerned?”

"He does have more important things with which is he concerned," Courfeyrac acknowledged, his voice light. "Things far more important than the life of one recalcitrant dwarf. You’ve already taken up more time in his life than any other individual."

Though Grantaire’s heart leapt slightly at that thought, he nonetheless looked away and said sourly, “But not enough to make him stay.”

Courfeyrac snorted, even that noise sounding musical. “No, but enough for him to ask you to leave with him.” They were both silent for a long moment before Courfeyrac asked, curious, “Why did you not agree to go with him?”

Grantaire took a long moment, debating over whether to tell Courfeyrac the truth. He figured he might as well — he had nothing left to do. “Because I cannot watch him die.”

It was the truth, laid out starkly, and for the first time, Courfeyrac’s normally merry expression fell. There was no laughter in his face now, and he was quiet for a long time, clearly trying to come up with an adequate response and falling short. “Elves do not die,” he said, finally. “Not in the same way as men, or even dwarves. We may be slain but we will be reborn.”

“Enjolras will die,” Grantaire said evenly. “He will cease to exist in Middle Earth. If he is reborn, it will not be here at my side. It may not even be in my lifetime. And I cannot watch, helpless, always helpless, as that happens.” Courfeyrac looked as if he wanted to say more, but Grantaire shook his head and lay back against his pillow. “Just let me sleep here,” he murmured. “Please.”

Courfeyrac stood and made no further protest, merely resting his cool hand against Grantaire’s brow and whispering, “Losto vae”, before leaving.

If the world was just, Grantaire would have fallen back asleep, would perhaps have somehow slept until he received word of the battle, but there appeared to be no justice in the world, as he instead lay awake, staring at the ceiling. What he had told Courfeyrac was the truth — the thought of watching Enjolras die was not one that he could stomach. But even worse was the thought that currently plagued him, the thought of continuing on in a world where Enjolras was dead.

He had admittedly not put much thought towards it, and even less plans. If he was truly examining his future, he could only imagine it extending until he learned of Enjolras’s inevitable death, and from there…From there was nothing. His future just abruptly shuddered to a halt.

And in that case, if that was as far as he could imagine…well, was he not almost better off accompanying Enjolras to die at his side? There was even a chance he may die  _before_  Enjolras, and then not even have to watch him die.

Grantaire was not usually fatalistic or even more so morbid, but as he grappled with Enjolras’s inevitable fall, he could not help but consider his own. He felt as if his entire life had led to the moment of meeting Enjolras, and that without him, he was nothing. He had always  _been_  nothing. He was someone only in Enjolras’s presence, and without him, was he to return to Erebor in disgrace and live his days alone? That thought was almost as horrifying as watching Enjolras die. He could admittedly hurry his own death — wait for news of Enjolras’s, and then throw himself in the Bruinen or something — but if he was so eager for death, he could just as easily find it at the Hornburg and at Enjolras’s side.

For the first time in his life, Grantaire had a sudden moment of clarity as to his purpose — at the moment, it was to be at the position he had previously refused. Which meant he, a dwarf with a raging hangover, had to somehow catch up with a legion of Elves.

It would be easier said then done.

He roused himself from his bed and went to the water basin, not even pausing before dunking his head under completely. Then he dressed himself in the battle armor his father had insisted he bring on their journey before making his way to Lord Elrond’s stables, as dwarves, of course, were wasted on cross country running.

With a horse acquired, one he was assured would be manageable even for him, Grantaire did not give Rivendell another glance as he chased after Enjolras, hoping only that he would not be too late.

* * *

 

The battle was underway by the time Grantaire arrived, the Deeping Wall already breached, and Grantaire did not hesitate before sliding off his horse, grabbing his ax, and darting into the fray.

He had but one goal in mind: get to Enjolras.

Any injury that came his way, any trials he faced, would be small and manageable just so long as he could see Enjolras one last time before they both lost their lives in this damn foolish venture. So it was with a strength not his own, with a borrowed fury, and previously unknown or unrealized deadly skill that he pushed his way through the ranks of the Uruk-hai.

Indeed, any who found themselves against his ax seemed to melt away, like specters against the light. If he suffered injury — and indeed, he did — he did not notice it, instead making his way inside the wall and towards the remaining Elvish archers. He passed by Courfeyrac’s fallen body but did not pause; further on, it was past Combeferre’s, transfixed on an Uruk blade but still somehow facing the sky. They were in many ways his friends as much as Enjolras’s, but he could spare them no thought, not when desperation curled in his belly and his ax was growing heavy in his hand.

And still he pushed on, with the insane hope that he might still, somehow, find Enjolras alive.

Then, as if Mahal himself guided him, Grantaire saw Enjolras, back against the rock ruins of the wall, bow thrown to the side, naked blade in hand. He was uninjured, it seemed — the blood that marred his clothing was too dark to be his — and he did not look weary, despite the toll the battle must already have taken on him. The Uruk-hai in front of him seemed to hesitate for a moment, unwilling, it seemed, to strike him down.

Which was the only moment Grantaire needed.

Letting out a mighty cry, he threw himself in front of Enjolras, raising his ax and snarling wordlessly at the Uruk-hai, who were temporarily taken aback. “Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, surprised, and though Grantaire did not turn, he nonetheless smiled at the sound of Enjolras’s voice.

“Do you permit it?” he asked, in atonement, perhaps, for all he should have done, for all he  _could_  have done, but had not.

In response, Enjolras raised his own sword, a sharp smile lifting his lips. “Together, then,” he said, and together, they swept into action.

They were horribly outnumbered, and the Uruk-hai were unaffected by their heroic stand. Too soon they found themselves overwhelmed, falling under the blows from the Uruk blades.

Again, though, Mahal seemed on Grantaire’s side, as they were not instantly slain in the confrontation but instead found themselves lying together against the ground, Grantaire’s ax missing, Enjolras’s blade buried in a dead Uruk somewhere.

It was their final moments, the final chance for Grantaire to say everything he had planned, but Enjolras beat him to it, faster as always, even here at the end. “You came,” he said, wonder in his weakening voice.

“I could not let you go without seeing you one last time,” Grantaire told him honestly, his breath beginning to wheeze as he did, and he added in a quieter tone, “The time I spent with you was the very best of my life, and I had to let you know that.”

Enjolras was quiet for a long moment, so quiet that Grantaire feared he had already passed on, but then he said quietly, “I have lived a very long life, Master Dwarf, at least by your kind’s reckoning. By my kind, I am young still, and shall now forever remain young.” Grantaire closed his eyes, because Enjolras did not share his feelings — he had always known that and now this was just proof. But then Enjolras continued, “And yet I cannot help but feel as if I did not live until I found you on the shores of the Bruinen. Which makes me believe that maybe this was our purpose, after all.”

“For however brief a time, I had you,” Grantaire said, struggling to move closer to Enjolras, his limbs no longer obeying his commands, though still he reached out, just managing to lace his small dwarven fingers with Enjolras’s long Elven ones. “And for me, that is enough. When I reach the Halls of Mandos, I would ask my kin not to tear their beards for me, for I had you.”

“And if we are to be reborn,” Enjolras said, his voice becoming breathy and difficult to hear, even by Grantaire in as close a proximity as they were, “we shall be reborn together.”

Grantaire snorted and just managed to pull himself closer yet to Enjolras. “Typical,” he muttered, though what little volume remained of his voice was fond. “We are not even dead yet and already you’re planning our next lives.” But still he squeezed Enjolras’s hand as best he could to show he meant it as a jest in this dark and final hour.

With that, they both fell silent, finding it too difficult to breathe, let alone speak, as the blackness closed in on them, at least until Enjolras’s hand grew heavy and still in Grantaire’s. “Wait for me,” Grantaire managed. “Na lû e-govaned vîn. Wait for me.”

So passed Grantaire son of Garm and Enjolras Amatúlië, together in death as perhaps they would be in the Halls of Mandos, their sacrifice helping ensure a victory over Saruman’s Uruk-hai in the Battle of the Hornburg.

**Author's Note:**

> Elvish translations:
> 
> —Guren níniatha n’i lû n’i a-govenitham: My heart shall weep until I see you again  
> —Uhunc ylf ernedui: He had too many cups of drink  
> —Losto vae: Sleep well  
> —Na lû e-govaned vîn: Until next we meet  
> —Amatúlië: Blessed arrival
> 
> Grantaire's father's name comes from the same poem from which Tolkien took most of the dwarves' names, the poetic Viking prophecies, [Völuspá](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/poe/poe03.htm).


End file.
